A Rip in Heaven: A Memoir of Murder And Its Aftermath

by Jeanine Cummins

  “You all right?” he asked.

  As Tom nodded his response, a chill spread over his body and sent him shivering and chattering all over again. The officer quickly stepped out of the patrol car and trotted over to the nearby ambulance. He returned a few moments later with a thick woolen blanket. He opened the back door of the squad car and wrapped Tom up in the gray blanket, pulling it tight around his shoulders and tucking it under his chin. This simple act of kindness brought tears to stand in Tom’s eyes and he shrunk back against the seat, embarrassed. That officer’s small act of compassion sharpened his pain so intensely. The contrast between that kindness and the cruelties he had seen that night solidified his trauma — made his horror all the more real and atrocious. Tom forced a breath past the sharp lump in his throat.

  “We’ve gotta find them,” he said quietly to no one, gazing out the far window of the squad car.

  The two officers stole concerned glances at each other. They weren’t sure if he was talking about his cousins or their attackers, but the chances of finding any of the above at this point seemed rather slim.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tink and Kathy Cummins slept soundly, tucked comfortably into matching twin beds in the back bedroom of their grandparents’ home on Fair Acres Road, still digesting their chicken stir-fry while they dreamed. The loud banging on the front door of the little house failed to fully rouse them. It wasn’t until they heard the strange voices in the living room that they both sat upright in their beds, their hearts hammering. The word “incident” had caught them both in their sleep and wakened them with a rough slap of consciousness. Tink glanced wildly at Kathy as they both leapt out of bed simultaneously. Kathy glanced at the clock: it was 5:32 A.M. Tink reached for the shorts she had discarded on the floor beside her bed a few hours before, tugged them quickly up over her hips, and followed her sister out to the living room.

  The front rooms of the house were crowded with people. Two large policemen stood in the doorway, Grandpa Art beside them with his hand still on the doorknob. Grandma Polly stood behind her favorite blue chair, her hands unconsciously wringing the back of the velvet upholstery. Kay and Gene stood blinking sleep from their eyes and asking the officers what questions they could manage in their sleepy confusion.

  “I’m sorry, we can’t answer any more of your questions right now. We really need you to get dressed and come with us. There’s been some kind of an incident at the Chain of Rocks Bridge,” the taller of the two officers explained again, “And your son Tom was involved. That’s really all we know.”

  “That’s impossible,” Gene started to say. “My son is asleep in the van . . .” But his voice trailed off. His mouth closed with a snap as his waking brain finally began to register the limited facts that were being offered to him.

  “An incident,” he repeated. Then, turning to his wife, “We’d better get dressed.”

  Tink’s blood turned to ice and the room started to spin out from under her feet. An incident. And she had known they were going to the bridge. She should have tattled.

  “Are they okay?” Kathy asked, alarmed, but more sensible than her older sister. “Is Tom okay?”

  “I’m really sorry I don’t have more answers for you,” the officer responded. “All I can tell you is that he and his two cousins were involved in some kind of incident at the bridge.”

  Gene stopped in his tracks and turned to face the officer again. “His cousins?” he asked, and he glanced at his guilty-faced daughters.

  “Julie and Robin,” Tink answered.

  “Was this an auto accident?” Gene asked then.

  “Not an auto accident, Mr. Cummins. I’m not really sure what the incident entailed,” the officer answered. “But to the best of my knowledge, I think your son is okay, I just don’t have any details. He was with two of his cousins — that’s all I know. I’m sure you’ll find out everything you need to know when we get you down to the bridge.”

  Gene told the officers that he knew the old bridge well and that they wouldn’t be needing an escort to find their way. As they left, the two officers tipped their hats to Grandpa Art, who thanked them and closed the door.

  “I’m coming with you,” Tink declared softly and turned to get her shoes.

  “No,” her father responded quickly. “You two will wait here and get ready for the trip home while your mother and I go sort this out. We’re leaving in a couple of hours, and whenever we get back here with Tom, I want you to be ready to get on the road.”

  Gene had absolutely no idea what to expect when he got to the bridge, but he did know that the police didn’t knock on your door with good news at five o’clock in the morning. So whatever it was he was going to have to face at the bridge, he wanted to keep his daughters at a comfortable distance.

  Tink briefly started to argue, but it was clear from her father’s tone that this particular decision was not up for debate. She walked across the room and fell into a seated position on the long couch with a thud. She folded her arms in front of herself and scowled. Within minutes, Gene and Kay were dressed and ready to go.

  Grandpa Art stood waiting by the front door for them, already dressed, with his shoes and his jacket on.

  “You two ready to go?” he asked, leaning for the doorknob.

  “Oh, Pop, you don’t have to come along,” Kay responded. “We’ll be okay on our own. We can find it.”

  “No way,” her father persisted. “Those kids are in some kind of trouble and they need us. I can be of some help. I know that river and I know that bridge like the back of my hand.”

  Kay glanced at her husband, then back at her father. She was so moved by his desire to help. He had been sick that past year and had recently undergone treatment for colon cancer; she was worried about him. That had been the whole point of this vacation, really. To visit her father who had been in poor health. She was terrified of what they might find when they got to the bridge and she didn’t want to expose her dad to anything that might shock him. But here he stood, completely unconcerned for his own well-being, determined to be a pillar of strength for her and her family. She looked at her two daughters, who were sitting frozen on the couch. She drew in close to her father, put her hand on his elbow, and whispered into his ear.

  “Pop, I really think the girls need you here right now,” she said.

  Grandpa Art looked up at his two granddaughters and silently nodded his head.

  “If we need you, I’ll call you,” she said. “I promise.”

  Her father nodded again and turned to take his jacket off. Kay kissed him on the cheek and thanked him while he mumbled over her gratitude and waved his daughter off. She opened the front door onto the still-dark yard and stepped out. Gene followed her, but turned as he reached the door.

  “I mean it, you two get ready to go,” he admonished his daughters. But he added in a softer tone, “I know you’re worried. I’ll call and fill you in as soon as we figure out what’s going on.” He looked at the two sullen faces of his teenage daughters and then strode out after his wife, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “I can’t believe they wouldn’t let us go,” Tink grumbled as the door clicked shut. She felt her sister nodding beside her but there was no audible response. Tink looked over at Kathy — her younger sister, archrival, and fiercest defender — and saw that her face was red, her eyes and lips twitching. She was terrified.

  “Kathy?” Tink said, as the first tears started to slide soundlessly down her sister’s face. “It’s gonna be okay,” she promised. “They’re gonna be fine.”

  At that moment, for the first time in all of their years together, Tink reached out and put her arm strongly around Kathy’s heaving shoulders. She wasn’t used to being the consoler — she wasn’t sure she had the strength. But at the moment she didn’t seem to have much choice. Kathy collapsed into her arms and the two sisters sobbed heavily together.

  At the Kerry house on Petite Drive, Ginna stood at the front window in the living room, pe
ering out into the dark street. She was worried and wild-eyed. With one hand she absently flicked the curtains and from the other one she dangled her car keys. She was fully dressed and her handbag hung loosely at her shoulder. Physically she was still, but her mind was pacing feverishly. She had to get to the bridge — that was all the police officers had really been able to tell her. They had used the words “incident” and “Julie and Robin” and “involved,” but they hadn’t been able to answer any of her questions. She had immediately telephoned someone to come over and stay with Jamie. As the headlights approached and then switched off, Ginna opened the front door and swung out into the chill air of the April pre-dawn.

  Shortly after Tom’s arrival back at the bridge, the police officers had moved him from the back of their squad car into the more comfortable facilities of an ambulance. Inside, he removed his wet clothes, which were quickly snatched up by the police as evidence, and wrapped himself up in one of the firemen’s big yellow running coats, with the blanket over his knees. The universal woodfire-smoky smell of the coat reminded him of work and home; it comforted him. But despite this small consolation, Tom was growing more despairing and despondent with each passing minute. It had been hours now since he had come ashore and there was still no sign of Julie or Robin.

  The bridge was a mess of people and activity. The mist hanging in the air was lit red and blue by the lights of all the emergency vehicles that had converged on the scene. Camera crews banged on the back door of the ambulance where Tom sat biting his lip. When he glanced out at them he saw the pampered puffs of hair, the lipstick, and the brightly tailored suits of reporters. The men and women in the uniforms of the police and fire departments, the plainclothes detectives, the paramedics, the crime-scene photographers, and even the efficient but sloppily dressed cameramen each seemed to be playing an important part here, doing something worthwhile. But the reporters looked gauche and unhealthy in the early-morning light and their presence made Tom shudder. The only footage they would get for their morning newscasts would be a zoom shot of him from a hundred yards away when one of the paramedics opened the back door of the ambulance to check on him. Tom was bent over his lap, resting his elbows on his knees and gripping his dirty hair with his hands.

  When Gene and Kay arrived at the Chain of Rocks Bridge sometime between five-thirty and six A.M., they were greeted by roughly two dozen police officers and all the trappings of a bona fide crime scene. Gene was not a panic-prone person. He was, after all, a Navy man, Vietnam veteran, pilot, firefighter, paramedic, and father of three teenagers. He was no stranger to the battlefield. Still, every trial he had experienced before in his forty-six years paled in comparison to this horrible moment in his life. Gene parked the big blue van and surveyed the scene quickly before he and Kay got out and approached the most senior uniformed officer in sight. Gene stuck his hand out to the lieutenant by way of introduction.

  “Hello, I’m Gene Cummins, Tom’s father. Can you tell me what’s going on, please? Where’s my son?”

  The officer glanced up from his spiral bound notebook and shook Gene’s hand. “Mr. Eugene Cummins?” the officer asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Of Gaithersburg, Maryland?”

  “Yes, can you tell me what’s going on, please?”

  “You have a son named Thomas Patrick Cummins?”

  “Yes, is he here? Where is he?”

  “He’s nineteen years old?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Gene looked around while the officer spoke, which wasn’t at all like him. He had always been taught to stand with your head up and look a person in the eye when he or she was speaking to you. It was rude to look around during a conversation and Gene had always been an honorable man, a man with impeccable manners. But his parental instincts were winning out over his sense of decorum now, as he assessed the scene and still couldn’t catch any glimpse of his son.

  “You’ve been vacationing here in St. Louis this week, sir? Visiting family, I understand?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. Where is my son, please?”

  Kay stood quietly beside her husband, watching the scene unfold as if she were outside herself, an invisible observer. She could not interject. She felt barely capable of following the volley of answerless questions.

  “Your son will be along in a minute, sir. Do you have two nieces named Julie and Robin?”

  “Yes — are they here too? Are they with Tom?” Gene continued to ask the logical questions though the officer, up to this point, had seemed either unwilling or unable to hear them.

  “Can you give me their full names and ages, please?” the officer asked.

  This time Gene didn’t answer — he was silent, distracted, examining the scene around him with increasing determination for clues as to his son’s whereabouts. Kay answered for him.

  “Julie Ann Kerry and Robin Ann Kerry. Julie is twenty and Robin is nineteen. I can give you their exact birthdates if you want them, but where are they? Where are our children?” she demanded.

  “Your son will be along in a minute, Mrs. Cummins. Do you recognize that blue car across the street?” he asked, gesturing with his ballpoint pen to where Julie’s little Hornet sat abandoned in the damp and foggy dawn. Kay turned to look where the pen was pointing, over her shoulder.

  “Yes,” she responded. “That’s my niece’s car — Julie’s car.”

  Her tongue felt thick in her mouth as she spoke and the confusion was worse than ever. They had gotten no answers since they arrived — only stranger and more terrifying questions. Her eyes and her husband’s were both furiously surveying the scene now, searching for Tom and the girls. There was no sign of them. Gene’s patience slipped from thin to nonexistent and he settled his gaze back onto the officer in front of them.

  “Where is my son?” Gene demanded. “Is Tom alive?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cummins, your son is alive,” the officer responded, finally looking up from his notepad.

  Gene began to breathe again, and his heart beat with renewed vigor.

  “Tom is alive. At least we know he’s alive,” he whispered either to himself or to Kay, whose knuckles and face were rapidly paling to a rather sickly shade.

  “Where is he?” he inquired then, in the same persistent tone.

  “Right now I believe he is in the back of an ambulance, being driven to a crime scene a mile or two downriver. It seems he has been a witness to an incident,” the officer replied.

  “What kind of an incident? Exactly what is going on here?” Gene demanded further.

  The officer cleared his throat and replaced his ballpoint pen in his breast pocket. He flipped the notebook back a couple of pages and cleared his throat again before he started to read. The words flew out of his mouth with sickening speed and Kay gripped her husband’s arm for balance as she listened. She couldn’t concentrate on the words — she only caught every fourth or fifth one, and those fell on her ears like the staccato crack of ammunition.

  “Approximately... arrive at bridge . . . accosted . . . four men . . . restrained . . . robbed . . . beaten . . .”

  At the words “gang rape,” Kay’s hand flew up to her mouth. Her stomach dropped and she was sure she would vomit, but nothing came. Just the continuing, nauseating stream of words from the officer in front of them who was doing his job.

  “Thrown . . . water . . . Tom . . . ashore . . .”

  “Tom came ashore.” Kay seized on that phrase, interrupting.

  “Tom came ashore, Tom came ashore. What about the girls? Where are Julie and Robin?”

  The officer stopped reading and closed his notebook. He took a deep breath, pausing a moment. “We’re looking for them, ma’am,” he responded. “So far they’re not, uh . . . your nieces are not accounted for.”

  “Oh my God,” Kay said quietly, tears starting soundlessly in her eyes.

  “We’ll be intensifying the search when the sun comes up and we’ll probably have more luck then,” the officer explained.

 
Now that he saw the naked horror of these people, saw their anguish unleashed in front of him, he seemed to want to say something to comfort them.

  “It’s just been too dark,” he continued. “But with the daylight we’re sure to have better luck.”

  He was unconvincing. He didn’t even believe his words himself. For a brief moment Gene was speechless. His face drained of color and his voice was mute, while his mind interpreted the fact that although Tom had come ashore, according to this officer, four or five hours before, Julie and Robin were still “unaccounted for.” It hit him like a sucker punch: his two nieces — his sister’s two vibrant and beautiful daughters — were dead.

  The next hour passed in a blur of pulsing, dreamlike commotion for Kay and Gene. One of the officers asked to see Gene’s fireman’s badge. Gene didn’t understand how this stranger even knew he was a fireman. Had he introduced himself as such? He couldn’t remember.

  “Is your shield the same as the one your son carried, Mr. Cummins?” the lieutenant asked.

  Carried. Why was everything in the past tense around here? Gene still hadn’t set eyes on his son.

  “Yes, it’s very similar to the one Tom carries,” Gene responded. “Only his doesn’t say CHAPLAIN on it. Other than that it’s basically the same.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” the officer inquired.

  Gene lifted his chunky wallet out of its permanent place in the back pocket of his blue jeans and flipped it open with one hand, displaying his shiny fireman’s shield. It looked like a promise in the slanted morning light. The lieutenant quickly called over a crime-scene photographer who pulled in close beside Gene, his camera’s giant flash waving boorishly in Gene’s face. He snapped several pictures of the shield from different angles while Gene stood holding it out at arm’s length to escape the monstrous flash. Gene was now an active player in the evidence-gathering.